Hark, the list fanatics of the world! Our time is nigh. The days when list-writing carried a stigma are over, nowadays all the cool kids are doing it. It’s cheap, it’s easy (Koko the gorilla could probably do it) and it’s highly entertaining. Also, it’s something you can do on your own without having to refer to the proverbial wisdom of your immediate ancestors. I am pleased to inform you that being in a relationship is not a requirement (these days so many things are), nor is the psychological instability (although, it helps). It’s just you and your felt-tip pen (the one that has always been there for you when you had to write nasty things about the cute waiter whom you secretly fancied even though he was totally wrong for you and who didn’t even offer to ask you for your phone number for the sake of politeness when you so clearly showed your eager interest in him by patronizing his employer’s establishment three times in one week and even forgot various personal articles (like your mobile phone, your library card and your house keys – making sure he could contact you personally) in the booth – don’t judge me …). My point is, lists can be and , indeed, are useful.

Despite the semi-mocking tone in the introductory paragraph, I, in fact, believe that list-making is very conducive towards enhancing one’s performance levels. I will not deny that this particular year was not my best, and I’m blaming the lack of lists in my life for it. You see, I love making lists – I always have. It’s something I was born with, much like my Yeti feet. They are great (the lists I mean, not the curious shape of my pedal extremities) for a multitude of sensible reasons. For example, they help one to organize one’s thoughts. Even the great Hercule Poirot, notre bon ami, had recurred to this technique time and again (see, how I cleverly forced an Agatha Christie comparison into the text?).

Also, I love the potential productivity that the idea of a list conveys. Naturally, I never get to tick off all the items I put on a list, but it’s the thought that counts (the obligatory lie one must tell oneself before getting crushed under the imaginary weight of self-reproaches and comfort food) or so says the worn-out slogan of every support group in existence. The great news is that there is a plethora of lists to choose from. One must naturally distinguish between serious list that would leave even people that don’t know you in awe (e.g. lists of actors you will eventually marry and then divorce or lists of punishments you want to inflict on your friends for tricking you into seeing any of the three Hangover movies) and lists that you make when you’re feeling frivolous (lists of nine letter words of Greek origin or, if you’re feeling naughty, words with Germanic affixes).

However, my favourite type of a list is a book list. My Serotonin levels rise at the very sight of one. There are 3 book lists in my top drawer at every given time. I simply love perusing through them. I grant you, sometimes it’s about as useful as reading the ingredients on the back of a flower fertilizer, but it has the redeeming quality of calming one’s mind. It really does. Often, when I don’t feel like doing anything too mentally strenuous, I will go read a book list. Not every list will do, mind you. I’m a list snob (of the worst kind, really) and will accept only those that have been approved by professionals or people who share my impeccable taste.

Even though I go into a conniption fit whenever I see a poorly-written book list, I’ve learned to control my indignation in front of the perpetrators of such atrocities and I have even learned to fight back by writing my proper book lists → epitome of everything that is beautiful in this world (no point being modest about it). Sometimes it’s as intellectually satisfying as actually reading the books because you see, personalized book lists are like chocolate muffins, they just don’t disappoint.

Of course, hiding behind every list-writing enthusiast is a pathological control freak. We are incapable of acting spontaneously and enjoying ourselves (unless we write that ON the list). I guess this must be connected with some inner insecurities which only extensive therapy can cure. Be that as it may, lists are simply wonderful. They’re full of promises of exciting things to come. Sometimes, that is just what you need.

It’s been a while. No, I have not been abducted by an adorable pointy-eared Vulcan (fingers crossed, though) nor have I forgotten my WordPress password (well, it depends on how you interpret the term “forgotten”. Personally, I favour the open-minded approach that involves resetting the password twice in a row because you misspelled it. It happens to a lot of people, so wipe that sardonic smirk off your face, Reader.). I have been really busy with school. Actually, as far as my parents are concerned, I’m working on my thesis right now. I chose not to tell I’m writing for a blog (of whose existence they are blissfully unaware) so as not to make them even more disappointed in me than they already are. You know, I think it’s hard for parents to accept their child is a socially unadept numskull, but after a lifetime of scoring poor results on various aptitude tests, they can’t pretend that they didn’t see it coming. However, it’s sunny in Paris, so all is well with the world. I ignore the source of such panglossian optimism in the face of bleak future, although an empty box of double stuffed Oroes might provide an invaluable insight into my seemingly vacant mind.

In truth, hiding behind this façade of carefree buoyancy is an anxiety-riddled mind. I’m finishing my studies and like the majority of my generation (or at least that is the lie that I keep telling myself) I’m currently in the process of re-evaluating my entire existence. It is all very disagreeable. For a long-time I knew exactly what I wanted to become – a wisecrack feminist with attitude, but I’ve asked around and apparently there are no vacancies for this particular job at the moment. So much for that dream. However, if you know anyone who’s looking to hire a person whose resumé is as varied as the daily diet of a supermodel, please, let me know. All of a sudden I find myself facing the harsh realities of life. What city should I move to? Would it be wise to continue my studies? Is one supposed to eat apples before or after breakfast? All these are issues that won’t let me sleep at night. I’m at a crossroads and instead of excellent career prospects, all I see is warning signs. Stop! Severe Unemployment ahead, or Careful, Begging is right around the corner and, of course, my personal favourite: Beware of having hopes and dreams! High Risk of failure.

I’m serious. Everywhere I go these days, there’s only talk about recession, redundancies and the rapacity of rotten CEOs. To be honest, it’s a wonder I’m not already on antidepressants. Thanks to news programmes on every second-rate network, we get to hear about the economic calamities 24/7. Believe me, I’m not denigrating people who listen to the depression generating media. I simply choose not to spoil MY days with reports of impending financial doom (it seems we haven’t hit the bottom yet). Therefore, my last visit to the bank besides leaving me financially empty also left me feeling emotionally distressed. I was patiently waiting in line to deposit a dishearteningly small amount of money on my bank account when a senior citizen engaged me in conversation.

In my experience, people jump to the occasion to offer advice. Well, on a Wednesday morning at eight o’clock I was the only person under the age of retirement to wait in line at the local bank. My presence caused quite a stir among the bank’s regular clientele. One dapper gentleman, in particular, found my being there peculiar. He showed an interest in my studies (a sign of good breeding) and after a few polite inquiries I was made privy to his personal philosophy (a sign of bad breeding). I particularly enjoyed the part where he over-emphasized, or so I thought, the utter unemployability of teachers. This was merely a follow-up to his remark about me never finding a job. His words really got me thinking and I’ve decided that from now on, I will only be hitting the bank just before closing time. I have grown used to demoralizing encounters with my relatives (they almost always give me fair warning), but how was I to anticipate a rhetorical ambush with dyslogistic intent at the break of dawn? Not cool. I guess that is just another crippling aspect of the ubiquitous Stranger Danger rule.

I am aware of my proclivity to exaggerate facts and events, but this encounter really had quite a cataclysmic effect on my well-being. To be told by a stranger with an arguably objective viewpoint that 5 years of continuous examination and studying was pointless can be a disconcerting experience even for the super smart. I don’t know about others, but apart from injuring myself in creative ways (sorry, but I call that a skill) I have no talents worth mentioning. My options are limited. I know about the outrageously misleading initiative behind you-can-be-whatever-you-want speech. Despite the fact that it has a very demulcent effect on pre-school children, this belief system is completely bonkers. For countless reasons having to do with the genetic wheel of fortune and one’s social and cultural environment, not everyone can become an astrophysicist or Australia’s next top model. It doesn’t matter what others say, sometimes you just cannot make it work.

Then, there is the ruthless competition. Is it just me or are the universities spewing out young bright students? It’s so annoying, right? The only reason they’re so exceptional (apart from the enormous talent and the hard work yadda yadda yadda) is because there are mediocre people like you and me. But does anyone ever think of that? No… Therefore, in behalf of all the mediocre individuals in the world, I demand an acknowledgement of our contribution to progress from the academic community. We matter. Remember that the next time you will get turned down on a job interview – and you thought I wouldn’t find the silver lining.

Even though this post won’t solve anything, it feels nice to spew abusive drivel every one in a while.

The moment YOU have all been waiting for has finally come. On January 27, I’ve been nominated for Liebster Blog Award by two different bloggers (talking about coincidences) and I didn’t even have to use the Force. The two individuals obviously possess a superior sense of judgement and can appreciate great literature when they see it. Also, they’re both terrific bloggers. Without further ado, I would like to introduce you to deepsspace and supernova, whose blogger names confirm my private belief that all men secretly want to be space versions of James Bond. As much as I would love to give vent to all gender-stipulated stereotypes, I don’t think the time has come for me to pour my vitriolic criticism on others. Therefore, before I trick myself into any more digressions and get booed from this blog portal forever, I’m gonna enjoy my 300 secunds of fame.

As I understand the rules are the following:

When you receive the award, you post 11 random facts about yourself and answer 11 questions from the person who nominated you. You pass the award onto 11 other blogs, tell them you nominated them, and ask them 11 questions. You are not allowed to nominate the blog who nominated you.

I am ready to comply with all the requirements. However, since I got nominated by two bloggers (a fact you might see me mention time and again), I’ve decided to answer a couple of questions from each. Naturally, I chose the questions that embarrass me the least and do not make me appear as a total idiot (I guess that’s for you to decide, but I beg to you to be merciful – a woman’s ego is a fragile thing).

But, first 11 things you’ve always wanted to know about me, but were too shy to ask.

1. I kept believing that my acceptance letter to Hogwarts would arrive until the day I started high school. Why didn’t it Dumbledore? WHY?!!!

2. I think university PE classes are the most perfected form of torture. – Looking like an overcooked tomato in front of cute guys is unacceptable.

3. Everybody with an ounce of sense should read Jane Austen. That includes men.

4. I’m addicted to all orange-coloured fruit.

5. It’s my personal opinion that I have the best taste in men.

6. One of my best friends calls me Frankie MacNutty. I’ll leave you to ponder why.

7. I’m a sucker for English accents.

8. I don’t like people who cheat in exams. It’s wrong.

9. I always sing when I’m blow-drying my hair. Then I pretend not to know where the noise is coming from.

10. I cannot even feign interest in Apple products.

11. I still haven’t learned to use make-up properly.

THE SELF-CONDUCTED INTERVIEW

What is your dream job?

I guess running a bookstore where I could organize Austen literary soirées and LOTR conventions.

Would you rather lick peanut butter off a hobo’s bare feet or spend 2 months in jail? (Please include your reasoning)

After a fair amount of cogitating, I’ve decided for option number 1. Sure, spending taxpayers’ money in order to read books undisturbed for two months seems like a good plan at first, but how will I ever explain this when I become the first female president of Slovenia? No, thank you. Second of all, I have never licked peanut butter off a hobo’s bare feet before, so maybe that is something that has been missing from my life. Also, once you’ve tasted Vegemite, you become less picky as to what you put in your mouth.

What have you learned today?

I’ve learned that my grand-father who is 79 has a more fulfilling social life than I do. It’s not particularly flattering.

If you were going to write a book, what would you call it and what would it be about?

The first novel shall bear the title “The memoirs of MP: Perils of a secluded existence”. And since it will become a national bestseller after only the first week (I mean let’s face it, who wouldn’t want to read that), it will be followed by an equally outstanding sequel “MP – Magnificent Paradox or Merely Perplexed”. And after winning several literary awards and feigning indifference for having changed the literary perception of the 21st century reader, I’ll rise to critical acclaim and go global with my third book (oh yes, it’ll be a trilogy)”MP: Mission Probable” where I’ll seek to underline the importance of human compassion in socially challenging situations (e.g. when you disgracefully slip on an inch of uneven surface on the street and even children point at you and laugh).

Do you like to plan things out in detail or be spontaneous?

Professionals in the field refer to my state as “anti-spontaneity”. It even takes me 10 minutes to pick the right low-fat yoghurt in the store. The staff at the supermarket hates me.

What’s your favorite part about today so far?

Listening to the soundtrack of City Hunter (the manga). “Get wild and tough … “ (This calls for another session with my blow-dryer.)

What is your favourite animal?

The Mary River Turtle. It looks like the reptilian version of David Bowie.

I honestly hope it’s a boy turtle.

Do you think global warming is due to human activity alone?

I think the kind of global warming we’ve been experiencing in the last 20 years is mostly due to human activity. It’s 96% our fault. We’re bad people.

Your favourite colour, what does it make you think of?

Green. It makes me think of Middle earth. Occasionally, I will pretend to be the fair Queen of Gondor.

That’s a no-brainer. Although I’m no tree connoisseur and can barely tell the difference between an oak and a chestnut, I can recognize my favourite tree at once. It’s Wollemi Pine. What’s so great about it? Well, for the last 65 million years it was thought to be extinct. Its exact location is known only to a handful of people. Thanks to the guy that stumbled upon it at an undisclosed location in the Blue Mountains (New South Wales), it has the cutest Latin name ever: Wollemia Nobilis. I love this tree because it revives my hope in the human race. Its sole existence nowadays is a miracle and it is to safeguard treasures like this that we have to fight against climate change and pollution.

Do you like Star Trek, The Next Generation?

When I was a kid, sure. These days however, I prefer the adventures of Han Solo.

Oh goody, it’s New Year’s. Another sad remainder that one achieved absolutely nothing this year. Less than nothing even. I think some years (this year actually) one (meaning myself) can actually manage to be anti-productive. It so happens that last year I forgot to make a list of resolutions (there is no excuse for it, I know), so this Monday I can at least lick my wounds in peace – and pretend not to remember all the things I failed to do (- to deceive oneself is half the battle). To have one’s failures listed on paper in alphabetical order (you can as well be neat) makes it that more jarring.

As my capacity for self-delusion suffers under the increasing strain of reality, I try to maintain my mental well-being by indulging in exuberance of escapism. Since I’m in a morbid mood, I must adjust my reading choices accordingly. They’re all about death, murder and being suicidal (and that’s just Snow White). I can’t afford to be too “Grimm-looking” (people might start to talk), so I have decided for some textually “lighter” reading. I’m currently half-way through my 3rd Agatha Christie (my weekly total) and the novels are proving to be very amusing. Black humour is much appreciated in a crime story. That Poirot man is one clever fellow. (I’m quite sure he never forgot to write a list of resolutions himself.) Also, human nature being what it is, it seems infinitely more enjoyable to read about other people’s miserable lives.

When I’m not sulking about or venting my Dark Side, I am trying not to bore my friend to death. She is awfully nice and funny and came from Paris to keep me company for a couple of days. My French seems to have reached a new low, so she deserves my respect (she’s truly a saint) for not bludgeoning me to death every time I have the impulse to open my mouth. I take the expression “kill time” very literally. It’s my impoverished survival instinct. It kicks in when the mind senses an upsurge of metaphysical angst.

In truth, I’m boycotting reality. In every possible way. I must say that if it weren’t for my secret power of imagination (“the world’s most powerful graphics disc” according to Sheldon Cooper), I would run the risk of becoming ordinary. The horror … Weird and funky is my thing. Without it, I’m just a sad girl who has imaginary conversations with the neighbour’s cat. (His name is Mr. Sparkler. He’s adorable, but not very bright – much like his namesake from Little Dorrit.) He tells me he didn’t particularly care for 2012 either and awaits the coming year impatiently. Apparently, our cat – Lady Violet, is a difficult cat to please (don’t I know it) and he’s thinking about taking his “business” elsewhere. Tomcats …

I’m not making this up. It’s been a rotten year all around. I’ve moved back home and became the family’s no. 1 under-achiever. Nothing I do ever seems to be right. For example, today I offered to go light the fire and I ended by setting fire to my fingernails (there are no words …). And as I tried to put the flame out, I rose too quickly and hit my head (my parietal lobe, to be precise) against the wall. You could hear the howl of pain a mile away. Not what I would call a successful end of the year.

I don’t mean to imply that there weren’t some bright moments after all, but in the melancholic aftermath of uneventfully bland Xmas, it is hard to remember the days not filled with self-pity and commiseration. The year 2012 is simply not worth to be seen in review (even though it did see the premiere of The Hobbit and the bicentennial anniversary of Dickens’ birth). The last year’s unfortunate omission of New Year’s resolutions and consequently the UnMerry 2012 made me sink in superstitious fancies. Therefore, to interrupt this vicious circle, I’m writing my resolutions down this year. Recycled paper, here I come (I might be in a bad mood, however, that’s no reason to act nasty towards nature). 2013 – you better make me proud.

1. Feed the cat. (Remember, it doesn’t like you, but that’s no reason to give it potato salad.)

2. Get a bunch of books from the library. You deserve it.

3. Survive the end of the world. (or paint your toenails – optional)

4. Write Christmas cards. (Also, buy Xmas cards!)

Sadly, that truly is the unimpressive life I lead. Actually, the most exciting thing about today was writing that list. (Admit it, you like writing them too! It’s such fun.) I was aiming to combine the ontological with the commonplace (I’ve had worse ideas). The only flaw in otherwise perfect list was that I completely forgot the world was supposed to end today, even though I distinctly remember writing it in my planner. I then lost, sorry, “permanently misplaced” the planner.

Putting my infectious obliviousness aside, let’s take a moment and consider the amazing collective feat we pulled off today. We managed to survive the end of the world. In your face Superman. This means we’re phenomenal. I mean how often do people predict that the world will end? So far, only once a year. I don’t read my horoscope, so possibly, the average number may be higher. (Please, excuse my ignorance in that area.)

I have a confession to make. I’m the worst fake believer in Divination (I outdo even Hermione). To tell you the truth, the impending doom was about as high on my priority list as was choosing the right colour of toilet paper in the store (in the end, I went with light orange. I find it more authentic than other colours. Plus, it’s bowel-movement-friendly.) In fact, I will go as far as saying I didn’t believe the world will end at all (I have some nerve, right?). Let he who was scepticism-free (a.k.a ridiculously gullible) cast the first stone. – Hmm, just as I thought.

Besides the lack of credulity when it comes to ancient prophecies, I simply decided that this Friday it would not at all suit me to die. First of all, I made plans to see The Hobbit during the weekend (an event I have been impatiently waiting for the last 4 years) and I won’t let a little thing like “total destruction” come in the way of me and Peter Jackson. Second of all, I still haven’t finished Catch-22 and I must know whether Nately’s whore succeeds in killing Yossarian or not (not knowing is the worst). Clearly, all of these are life-and-death issues, therefore, I’m postponing the end of the world till 3000 and something (I feel we have one millennium in us yet) or till it feels more convenient. Whichever comes first.

I have the biggest respect for the Maya peoples (I dote on their fashion choices), but it will take some scientific mumbo-jumbo to make this girl even slightly suspicious about imminent annihilation. Actually, if you take the word of a disc-jockey on a low-budget radio station (and I, for one, do), it would seem the Mayas themselves saw today as the beginning of a new era rather than THE Apocalypse. Therefore, what was all the fuss about? Personally, I have no sympathy for those who were building bunkers (like that’s going to save you) and buying books (really, people?) about how to prepare for the end. I’m not afraid to say, I’m judging every one of them.

For heaven’s sake (how do you like my apocalyptic lingo?), life is not a Cormac McCarthy novel. Not yet, anyway. There is still some “road” to travel. In any case, I have a plan. When the real thing comes, I’m going to be prepared. I intend to read Jane Austen’s books (that includes her private correspondence) and eat cake for a week. Pretty good, eh? My only worry is that my favourite patisserie will run out of cake. That would really put a spanner in the works. – We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. Also, as famous landmarks across the world will be getting destroyed, specifically the Eiffel Tower and the Statue of Liberty, I will sit in my rocking chair listening to the ultimate Disaster song – The Ride of the Valkyries. Epic moments deserve epic treatment.

It would be pointless to end this post on a positive note, so I’m ending it on a poetic one. I’m wondering, as did the great Robert Frost, whether the world will end in fire or in ice. The heat of passion & the coldness of hate? Both are lethal. Eventually, we will all have to come to terms with our own mortality. I just prefer facing The Solitary Reaper head on.

Ok, technically speaking, it’s not the Grim Reaper, but one of the Ringwraiths. However, whom do you think Tolkien had in mind when he “created” those hellish creatures?

I grew up knowing two things: passive smoking can kill you (graphic evidence in my high school textbook is gruesomely overwhelming) and global warming is real. Call me crazy, but those who persist in disbelieving the truth are in a greater state of denial that Heathcliff in Wuthering Heights. Despite his tragic ending, my faith in soul mates persists as does my belief in green technologies. Therefore, it upsets me when people deny climate change. Stupid says what stupid thinks, I guess.

Browsing through a seminar paper on ecology that I wrote 8 years ago (my first and last of the kind), I am reminded of the zeal with which I pursued this topic in high school. I’m sad to report that none of my classmates shared this particular passion for environmental preservation, at least judging by the degree of “divided” attention I was given during my presentation (if they knew the importance …). I talked about massive floods, the destruction of the Amazonian rain forest, the pollution of natural sources and the extinction of wildlife. I care about these things. A lot. Probably more than I do about weight-loss. And that is saying something.

At night I even worry about the emissions of greenhouse gases into the atmosphere. Just the other day I dreamt that air pollution was so bad, we all had to walk with fish tanks on our heads. Maybe I shouldn’t have been reading The Goblet of Fire before bed-time (those Bubble-Head Charms are quite impressive), yet I blame this semi-fantastical nightmare on my overdeveloped sense of the ecological unconscious. Eco-anxiety is a real thing, by the way.

Photo Credit: Chris Madden

The living conditions on our planet are changing. I don’t expect anyone has forgotten the colossal destruction that Sandy, Isaac and Katrina had left in their wake. It is a fact, weather storms are getting worse each year. Sea temperatures are rising and if you passed high school geography, you know that tropical cyclones are fuelled by the water vapour released in the moist air.

Even if you have been lucky enough to escape the fierce hurricanes, you must have noticed some changes wrought by the consequences of global warming in your own environment. One very disagreeable side-effect of climate change is the proliferation of creepy-crawlies. Last week I was woken from my nightmare (yes, the one about air pollution) by the annoying whining of a mosquito in my ear. Mosquitoes at the end of November? – “Inconceivable”, Vizzini would say. Unfortunately, no. I already try my best to exterminate these blood-sucking pests during the long summer months (sorry, but my support for Mother Nature doesn’t extend to all her creatures), therefore, the prospect of being plagued with such microcosmic aberration at the onset of winter is very distressing.

With temperatures endlessly rising, the seasons are losing their sharpness. Last year, we only experienced two meagre weeks of winter (in early February nonetheless), otherwise the entire Xmas season felt more like a long spell of spring. I’m not really sure what Persephone is playing at, but this madness must stop. I want to spend this year’s holidays watching the snow transform the landscape into a freakin’ fairytale against the background of Vivaldi’s vibrant violin concertos (Der Winter, obviously).

As we are speaking of seasons, the summers (my least favourite time of year) are getting longer and hotter. Basically, for four months you helplessly observe as everyone around you gradually turns into fountains of perspiration. The indicated persistence of sun leads to water shortages and the withering of crops in draught-stricken areas. At the end of summer this invariably results in higher crop prices. Less and less people are able to afford quality products and the fast-food chains like McDonald’s prosper as never before. It makes me sick to my stomach to think about it (and not only because of the execrable stuff they sell as food).

Apocalyptic storms, gradual disappearance of snow in the Antarctic region, the ubiquity of take-away outlets represent some of the evils of the modern world. It is discouraging to see that world leaders are doing nothing to combat climate change except postponing the treaties. They should act for the planet, not against it. Until they reach an agreement, let us each do our bit for the environment – Walk more, take quicker showers, use greener energies. Remember: “Global warming – We’re not lovin’ it”.

Once upon a time (after all, who am I to go against this well-respected fairytale opening) there lived a young middle-class girl who simply doted on Jane Austen and Lord of the Rings (it would have sufficed to say she had excellent taste). This charming maiden also had a younger sister who doesn’t appear in this story at all, but the author thinks it important to at least acknowledge her existence. The young maiden took interest in many things except exercise, physics, cookbooks, cooking itself, facebook games, the Hilton sisters, the news programme, the weather programme, French historical grammar and Jack Kerouac.

One day this fetching creature met a lady that gave her good advice –nay, excellent advice. A fortnight later she was introduced to a petty government officer who offered her the very worst advice possible. The scoundrel. Another fortnight later she got a letter that bore some displeasing piece of news. All in all, the girl had quite constant sources of communication (she was ALMOST very popular in correspondence circles). However, a year ago, the heroine got into some trouble. (Once she returned from the ball after midnight (the hussy), but it has nothing to do with this story, so please forget about it. Immediately. Why are you still reading this paragraph?).

Despite her antagonistic feelings towards any form of physical exertion, the silly thing got and enrolled herself in a fitness class that took place every Monday morning at 7.30 a.m. Why, you ask? She couldn’t say. She only knew that the morning slot would suit her best because most fellow students are lazy buggers that wouldn’t dream of doing anything as demanding as indoor cycling so early in the week and she would be left alone to ponder her own thoughts for an hour and a half.

Alas, it would not be. Not only was she not alone, when she came in late the first morning, her gaze rested upon some twenty gentlemen who were already busily engaged in chasing one another around the gym. She was the only lady. They looked at her as if she had come in riding a unicorn. You see, the poor creatures had never seen a lady this close before. They were scared – and rightly so, she could have easily knocked the sense out of their nerd-built bodies (I mean, who else did you expect to show up at 7.30?).

Then, an extraordinary thing happened. She joined them quite unabashed (if you disregard her prolonged meditation of the floor, her disinclination to establish eye contact and the intense blushing that coloured her cheeks). In the end, it appeared they were more scared of her than she of them. It was one of the maiden’s many misfortunes that morning to forget to check herself up in the magic mirror on the wall. That honest bastard would have told her to avoid doing sports.

However, since the running slippers seemed a perfect match, she decided to give this thing a go. Also, she had washed her hair the previous evening and it seemed a waste not to show that gold locks off. When she entered the hall, it lit up (for the caretaker had just turned on the lights). She was a vision in black (she ran out of clean white clothes during the weekend). Well, as it had been already said, she joined the young frogs, I mean princes in sportsman attire.

The day seemed promising until (some few minutes later, two min actually) destiny gave her a horrible twist. She was stretching her shapely limbs when suddenly the earth shook beneath her feet and left her lying on the floor. The lady runneth no more. She was lying prostrate on the floor for 5 long minutes, until the gentlemen decided it would be difficult to play the game around her – she was taking up too much space.

Finally, a man in black (her gym teacher) happened to notice she was writhing with pain, and offered her his arm for support. The game could be resumed; as for the girl, she wasn’t doing that well. Her right foot was twice the size of her left one. No reduction spell from Madam Pomfrey for her. (A friend of the lady’s did suggest that her foot was the size of a hobbit’s. At the time, the lady didn’t catch the word “size” and was afraid that her friend was making a much, much less gallant comparison. She would like to take this opportunity and apologise to her friend for the name-calling that ensued).

Luckily, she was given one call. She chose her sister’s father. As a king on a white horse, he came to her rescue and took her to the Houses of Healing. There they took care of her and gave her some more distressing news. The silly thing broke a bone in her left foot and was given a cast and a pair of crutches as a consolation prize. That week she had to miss all of her classes and she was inconsolable. But, bit by bit, her spirits were restored and soon she was only dead tired (she spent up to 12 hours at the faculty because her schedule was disastrous) and hungry (she frequently ran out of food and was too tired – refer to the previous remark – to buy some).

After two weeks, Lady Limps-A-Lot could manage the walk to the faculty (it only took her 5 times the usual time). Since she couldn’t hold an umbrella, her fairy god-mother brought her a black raincoat. She decided to disregard the fact that she looked like the limping hunchback of Ljubljana, and focused on what her LOTR background was forcing her to see. It was a cape of invisibility that the fair Galadriel handed out in the Fellowship. If nothing else, it helped hide her identity (which she was anxious to do at whatever cost).

Four months later she could walk normal again. THE END

Mr. Right didn’t make his appearance because to engage his services would have been too expensive and because the heroine thought he was no match for her.

In my opinion the world is divided into two kinds of people: the ones that love sports and the ones that don’t. Guess which group I tend to identify with. It’s true, I most heartily dislike any form of physical activity. In high school P.E. was my least favourite subject (yes, I even enjoyed my wood shop class more). I don’t climb, I can’t jump and I honestly believe that all ball games were designed for one purpose only – to torture and humiliate me.

This is all the more surprising because my brother, my sister and my dad are all very sporty. You could say it “runs” in the family. They hike, they play basketball and they go cycling like the Winslow family in Family Matters (check the theme-song if you don’t believe me: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kYvNiKwWvhk ). Crazy people, if you ask me. I have never shared that blind enthusiasm for sports, which at times still makes me suspect that I might have been adopted. Naturally, I have seen my birth certificate, but you know, those things can be bought.

My body simply doesn’t adopt well to movement. That’s fine, because over the years I have accepted myself for what I am – calamity on legs. This is not a joke. If you ever have the misfortune of finding yourselves near what I call “my 4 feet disaster zone”, you’ll probably enjoy quite a spectacle. Just the other day I walked into a fire hydrant. Again. The eye-witnesses are unable to agree on the cause of this public humiliation. Few of them think that possibly the vivid colour of the object confused me, while the majority is of the opinion that I’m just stupid. Who is to say? My point is, I make Newton’s 3rd law of motion look like a child’s play.

Don’t even get me started on team sports. It’s bad enough when one has to show one’s lack of skills individually, but in front of an entire collective it is simply mortifying. Not to mention they all have balls, the activities that is, not the athletes. In elementary school we played Dodgeball during each lunch break. Please picture this, I was the awkward kid with glasses, braces and bad hair. My school years seemed like a cruel joke to me even without the playground frolicking. Therefore, it still puzzles me that anyone would invent an activity whose “goal” (funnily enough) is to hit a person with a heavy object. The ten-year-old me was horror-struck.

Things didn’t change much even when I started high school. I had to play volleyball. Three times a week, ten moths a year. Till this day, I cannot look at a net without experiencing severe convulsions in my right hand. It was elementary school all over again. I couldn’t hit the ball right. My underhand serve was pathetic (and I’m being nice here). On several occasions I was so frightened that even though I saw the ball coming towards me, I couldn’t move. Consequently, I received more hits than Rihanna’s songs on Youtube.

I failed the exercise test. They asked me to run. I said no. Running – wrong unless professionally or as a child.

Miranda Hart

The cycle of humiliation didn’t stop at university either. Each person had to sign up for a P.E. class. After careful consideration I chose fitness. I mostly got through those interminable lessons by sitting on an abdominal machine (they had surprisingly comfortable seats) till the mellifluous sound of the bell announced “end-of-class”. That doesn’t mean I didn’t do any workout. Before we were allowed to go our separate ways, we ALL had to participate in a 25-minute stretching session. It was so embarrassing that it deserves a post of its own. I will only say this. I bend for no one, least of all a random gym teacher. A girl must draw a line at something, right?

As you can see, I’m not big on exercise (either as a spectator or as a participant). For the life of me I cannot figure out the attraction of watching sports on the telly. Take Formula One for example, it’s just driving really fast in circles. I sit down and I get nervous after 2 minutes. It’s like watching the same weather forecast fifty or sixty times in a row with the weather girl occasionally changing her hair accessories. It’s maddening. Even basketball doesn’t escape my anti-sport rant. The only basketball I ever suffered to watch was on One Tree Hill. Scott brothers just made it look cool.

All in all, exercise is bad for me. (I have evidence.) It’s an evolutionary fact of life. Penguins can’t fly and I can’t run. So, I welcome with open arms those who are of a similar “bend” of mind. I don’t say all forms of physical activity represent a health hazard. I just want you to know that it is OK not to like sports. It’s our human right. Now do what you like, the ball is in your court.